La Vie Boheme
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: Mary is straight. Holmes is asexual. Watson is confused. A threesome story.


xXx

It's afternoon at Watson's new house. Holmes is describing a case to Lestrade who stands off to one side, his arms folded across his chest, dark eyes narrow with doubt. Annoyed, Holmes tugs Watson up from the chaise, nodding to Mary. "Mrs. Watson, will you please find your guitar?"

How he knows that Mary plays the Spanish guitar is anyone's guess. Watson thinks it probably has something to do with the smooth calluses on the fingers of her left hand. Maybe the muscles above her knuckles are over-developed or perhaps he saw old strings in their rubbish at some point. Either way, that's not really the point when she complies and he instructs her to start strumming out a tango, Latin dance steps which he counts out; one - two - three - four.

He starts dancing with Watson, explaining the scene to Lestrade who is trying very hard not to roll his eyes. One, two and there is a dramatic retelling of events from the Contessa's ball when her diamonds disappeared from around her swan-like neck as smoke into thin air.

Mary plucks and sings a tra-la-la, only slightly off-key. Watson is swirled and dipped, much to his annoyance. Holmes is smug and Lestrade is just about to cut them all off when Holmes reaches and pulls the diamonds from Lestrade's pocket with a magician's flair. "Which is where I was able to procure them from, once the Duke was looking the other way, of course," Holmes says.

Surprised, Clarkey gasps. Mary claps. Watson is still hanging upside down in Holmes' arms and grumbling. Lestrade scoops up the diamonds and tips his hat to Mary before stalking off, frowning.

"You'd think he doesn't appreciate my work," Holmes says to no one in particular. "It's a travesty."

"My leg is near broken," Watson says, his face red from being upside down too long.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Officer?" Mary offers Clarkey who looks as entertained as a man at a circus might.

"That would be quite kind, Mrs. Watson. Very kind indeed," he replies and the tea is poured, with salutes to everyone, even Clarkey who, in truth, did nothing at all.

xXx

Watson is never quite sure what he'll find when he comes home. Not that he expects anything too bad, but Holmes has a way of showing up at the strangest times, requesting the strangest things. It's only because he knows this that it's not a surprise when he finds Holmes in his sitting room, standing on a chair, wearing one of Mary's old dresses.

His wife is there, a pincushion tied around her wrist. She shakes her head as she gathers the fabric closer around Holmes' waist. "You're so thin," she complains. "Perhaps a pillow under there?"

"Oh, that won't do at all," Holmes replies, the pipe in his mouth standing in stark contrast to his outfit. "I have faith in you, Mrs. Watson. Your creativity will win out."

"I don't suppose I'm going to get an explanation for this," Watson says, glancing through the post. "What about a belt?"

"A tuck and some lace," Mary decides suddenly. "As well as lace on the bottom, for length. It will look as though part of the design." She threads a needle expertly and Holmes stands patiently beneath her nimble fingers. She somehow manages to hide two hideous darts beneath a wide lace belt and matches it to a layer below, which hides Holmes' not-exactly-feminine ankles. She surveys her work with a critical eye and a shrug. "That's as good as it will get on such short notice."

"I will need help with the rest," Holmes says, fluffing his surprisingly clean hair. "Do we have a fan? Or those sticks ..."

Mary's lips purse. "You're asking quite a lot, Mr. Holmes." She sighs and leads him to the dresser as Watson watches. She pulls out all the tools of the feminine trade - combs and barrettes, ribbons and pins. There is pomade and Watson shakes his head, telling them both to wait.

He comes back a moment later with a large flower from a neighbor's garden. Pleased, Mary combs Holmes' hair back into a semblance of a ladies' hairstyle, hiding how short it is with the flower. "This is better than I thought, but you'll need powder. And those eyebrows ..." she says, almost apologetically.

"Beauty is pain," Holmes says agreeably, submitting to Mary's judicious use of powder and rouge smeared over his sharp cheeks, a shade brushed above his large eyes. The tweezers are taken out and Watson wanders off to his brandy, wincing with every 'ouch!' that emits from his friend.

He settles down with his paper, hardly looking up when they enter the room. Mary taps his shoulder and he's about to mutter something dismissive, at least until he honestly _looks_ at Holmes.

He's ... gorgeous. Watson's eyes widen and his breathing quickens as Holmes turns around in a circle, pleased with his transformation into a dark-haired, almost exotic, beauty. "Do you think Mr. Hampton will fall for it? I only need a few minutes of intimate conversation with him and by God, I will have a confession. And a conviction."

Watson swallows past a dry throat. Mary chuckles and puts an arm around her husband's shoulders. "I think he might," Watson says, suddenly overtaken with an urge to take his wife into the bedroom and work out his passionate confusion. There. Now.

Of course, Holmes notices his sudden shift in the chair. "Poor Mrs. Watson," Holmes says, letting her drape a shawl over his shoulders. He adjusts the flower in the looking glass. "Your work is never done, is it? Men will be the death of you, my dear."

She laughs gaily and leads Sherlock Holmes out the door with a kiss on the cheek. For luck.

xXx

He takes his time that evening and Mary enjoys herself as much as he does, asking him what he thought of Holmes in her dress and god, she's a lovely girl, making him confess his filthiest desires in the safety of her arms.

She doesn't seem to mind. In fact, she encourages him rather than otherwise and he comes with a vague idea of Holmes' prick up his arse as he's coming inside of her. It's only later she admits that she was thinking the same thing, except with Holmes thrusting into her bottom and they laugh then, blushing even, so strange for a staid, married couple.

She falls asleep with her head on his shoulder. He stares at the ceiling and thinks about how Holmes' tobacco smoke used to float overhead, swirling in shades of gray.

It seems wrong, somehow, that he's not there.

xXx

Two weeks later the gentleman next door dies. His possessions aren't claimed by anyone so Watson and Mary drag the more interesting pieces into their garden to use as outdoor furniture for the summer, at least until they fall apart in the autumn. They throw an outdoor party and invite all of Baker Street, including Mrs. Hudson and the Irregulars, who show up to grab most of the sandwiches when they think no one is looking.

Inspector Lestrade is also invited, as is Holmes who shows up wearing his dark glasses and swinging his crop in a jaunty manner. Everyone then proceeds to get ridiculously drunk - the sandwiches are gone - including Mrs. Hudson who sips at her fourth sherry as genteelly as possible. A huge feathered hat is tilting halfway off her head, making her look like a tipsy chicken, at least to Watson who is so deep in his cups he knows he'll regret it tomorrow.

Lestrade reclines in one of the overstuffed chairs, cigar dangling from his mouth, listening without interest as Holmes insists that no one could ever beat him and Watson at a Japanese game known as _janken_. "Rock defeats scissors, scissors cut paper, paper destroys rock," Holmes explains. He shows Lestrade the signals who examines them through the smoke. "It's simple!"

"Very simple," Watson agrees, taking a seat next to Holmes and together they drunkenly demonstrate. It dissolves into an argument before long and scissors turn into pokes, rocks into shoves. Lestrade sighs as Mary pours him another whiskey. "Thank you," he says, tipping his hat to her. "I don't envy you in the morning."

Mary sips at her wine, which has turned her lips an interesting shade of berry-red. She smiles at Holmes who leaves off fighting with Watson and pulls out his violin. He plays sweetly into the evening, and couples are formed, swaying together gently. At midnight Gladstone rises up from his slumber and howls at the hangnail moon. Holmes follows suit and Watson thinks they are going to be run off the block the next morning, before joining in, howling beside his best friend, as the rest of the party adds their voices, crying out at London's smog-filled skies.

They are, in a word, free.

xXx

Holmes is too far gone to go home, at least that's what Watson insists. "I have an extra room," he slurs before promptly forgetting where it is. "Well, I do," he finishes helplessly, falling atop the sofa, one shoe flipping off.

Mary, who also isn't too steady on her feet, trips over the shoe and falls into Holmes' lap with a shriek. He sits her up and that's as far as she gets, falling back with every attempt at rising. Resigned, she settles in and Holmes undoes her mussed hair, brushing the tangles out with his fingers. It's not sexual in the slightest, just gently attentive and Watson watches this curiously, as he's never seen Holmes this intimate with a woman ... or a man for that matter.

Still, he's not exactly pleased at being left out. He crooks his finger at his wife, who rises with superhuman effort and lands squarely atop him, laughing, her long hair a veil around their heads. He tumbles her down to the floor and proceeds to take her without finesse in front of Holmes who makes a face, but doesn't leave.

Watson looks up at Holmes in silent invitation.

"This isn't for me, my dear," Holmes whispers. "But please, don't stop on my account."

So Watson doesn't. Soon his wife's skirts are high and Watson's pumping inside her as Holmes watches, fondly, but without much interest. Watson thinks about what might happen if Holmes were other than what he is before realizing that if Holmes weren't himself, Watson wouldn't desire him at all. An interesting conundrum, Watson thinks, but only for a second as Mary is rhythmically tightening her cunt around him in that way that drives him completely insane.

He releases with a shudder. Mary follows him, calling his name and Holmes lights his pipe, smiling. "Tomorrow we will curse the sun," he predicts between puffs.

His mouth already dry with the coming hangover, Watson shakes his head. "We will be grateful for another day," he claims, pulling himself together, pants up as Mary pulls her dress down. They don't take off their clothes, they simply fall asleep where they are, in front of the unlit fireplace and the last thing Watson sees is Holmes' tobacco smoke floating overhead, swirling in shades of gray.

The world, somehow, seems very right again.

Free ... and right.

xXx

end

_Reviews are appreciated. Thank you for reading. :D_


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